


Retreat and Advance

by BarracudaHeart



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Character Death, Divorce, Drug Use, HIV/AIDS, Homophobic Language, Homosexuality, Other, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-03-01
Packaged: 2018-01-14 04:28:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1252885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarracudaHeart/pseuds/BarracudaHeart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He wrinkled his nose slightly, wondering if the Russian was issuing a challenge. A race to the death to see whose life had more purpose on the planet. Roderich was going to fill the world with music, at least he dreamed of it. What was Ivan going to do? Sit and smile at an AIDS support group for the next twenty years? How riveting."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Retreat and Advance

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to write up a short story loosely inspired by Rent. I've found I'm a lot more fond of Austria's character and his artistic preferences.
> 
> The song used in this story is 'Till the End of Time' by DeVotchKa

For the last three months, since he'd last walked out of the doctor's office, Roderich had invented a game for himself. Every day he took the bus, he'd see how much he could pull himself in, both physically and mentally. He would pretend to be a turtle, drawing in his legs, folding his arms under them, and finally, his head tucked in between his chest and legs, until he was in a ball, taking up the whole bus seat. He could only imagine black sprites flowing from his body, leaving decay and doom wherever they touched. He imagined them pulsing through his veins, through every breath in his lungs, every blood cell black as night. He pictured that if someone cut open his body, the writhing sprites of darkness would fly out like a swarm from the hive, leaving his insides pitch black.

The darkness of decay was becoming a manifestation from his mind which was probably dark as well. It could almost drip from his fingertips, staining the ivory of his lovely piano keys like splotches of ink that only he could see.  _His diseased body had touched that key, and he knew it was not going to be clean again._ No matter how much he scrubbed it, or his hands, even if they bled, he'd never be clean of such darkness again.

Getting off the bus for work at a temp agency, he pulled his coat up to his face, keeping from the cold. He could taste the metallic tang of blood, even if the red fluid wasn't expelled recently. Eyes heavy from the chill of winter, he walked down the street, staring forward to keep out of sight of everyone and everything.

* * *

_"Are you sure?", the Austrian murmured as he sat in the chair across from the somber looking doctor._

_"Yes, I'm sorry, Mr. Edelstein, but you have tested positive for HIV, Stage 2," he responded softly._

_"Am I going to die?", he asked, looking straight into the other's eyes._

_"I'm sure with antiviral therapies you can remain active for-"_

_"Am I going to die?", he repeated with a sharper, irritable tone._

_The doctor was quiet for a long moment, before responding, "Yes. I am afraid that is inevitable."_

_He stared at his lap, taking a deep breath, "How much longer then?"_

_Looking at his clipboard, he sighed, "A year or two. Maybe even three with AZT or other anti viral therapies. Your T cell count will drop, regardless."_

_Roderich had no response to that, and so the doctor continued, "...Have you had sexual relations with anyone in the last year?"_

_"Not since I split with my wife last summer," he mumbled, picking at a hangnail, stomach twisting as blood slightly layered from where the skin was detached._

_"Have you had any blood transfusions or operations in the past year?", he asked, going off the list of possible contracts. When the Austrian shook his head, he asked, "Used any needles?"_

_When Roderich did not answer, he looked up, "...Mr. Edelstein, I'm trying to find out how this might have happened. Please do not be ashamed to tell me."_

_Throat going dry, the other piped up, "I...started using drugs a month after my wife and I split."_

_"Intravenously," the doctor murmured, writing something down, "Were the needles you used new?"_

_"Most of them were," he mumbled, "Except...three needles I got were used. I was on drugs for about a month until I saw how bad they were making my hands move...so I used some of my savings for rehabilitation," he recalled. Some of his savings ended up being all of it though, as just the day before, Roderich had applied for foodstamps. He'd also had what he thought was another asthma attack, though, he'd not had any since he was a young child, except when he removed his hand from his mouth, phelgm stained with dark black clots of blood was covering his palm._

_The doctor sighed, "...Used hypodermic needles are a common way to contract HIV."_

_"I should have known better, right?", Roderich grumbled, waiting to be scolded. The doctor just shook his head, "You...were just unlucky.", and got up, walking over to a table, opening a drawer, and pulling out a card with a phone number on it, slipping it in the Austrian's medical file, "I have contacts for an HIV/AIDS support group if you are interested in seeking-"_

_"I'll be fine," he responded shortly, getting up, and gave a curt nod as he left, file in hand. He speedwalked to his car, and sat in the front seat, staring at his lap. Suddenly, the numbness was fading, and as a sour taste grew in his mouth, he became fearful. Not of dying, but dying without meaning or purpose to his existence. To be too weak to sit up at his piano, and play it, music drifting through his home. It was his life, his blood, his meaning. He didn't want to die without any meaning. He didn't want to die alone on the streets. He didn't want to die, leaving his family to think he was a neglectful, horrible person._

_Though now, it seemed inevitable._

* * *

After work, Roderich took another bus across town to the civic center, hands shaking as he got off. His doctor had suggested for the, third time that month, that he go. And just to shut him up, he did.

The room was small, with a circle of chairs in the center of the room, as well as a row along the wall. One of the fluorescent lights was flickering continuously, bulb broken, that was sure to irritate the musician. Inspirational posters plastered the walls.

Roderich immediately regretted coming early, having to see the eyesore of a room. At least it would be more tolerable with others taking up space in the room.

Terry, the man in charge of the group, was fairly pleasant, Roderich found out. He was thin and unimposing, but had an optimistic face. He shook Roderich's hand, even though the Austrian warned him he did indeed have the HIV virus. Terry just said, "It's OK, I won't catch it."

The circle of chairs was quickly filled by new and recent members, which included Roderich, and the row of chairs at the wall was for sponsors, old or experienced members, or allies of the group who were there to offer individual support.

The first thing emphasized in the group was confidentiality, so no fear or embarrassment could occur. Second was to emphasize that nobody should be ashamed for having HIV, and that while it was alright to not share it publicly, they didn't need to be afraid to be open about it.

"And please remember," Terry added towards the end of the meeting, "Even if we might not live as long as others, we are all important, we are all good, and we can all still make a difference."

With that, Terry assigned sponsors to the new attendees. "Roderich, you will be sponsored by Ivan Braginsky."

The Austrian bit the inside of his cheek, lips puckered a bit. Ivan was the tall, big boned guy in the tacky sweater at the end of the row, who looked like he smashed cars for a hobby on weekends. And he seemed to never stop smiling, which almost unnerved Roderich. With such a baby soft attire, he appeared like a very odd duck.

"Hallo," he smiled, "You are Roderich, yes?"

"Yes," he responded shortly, "Please don't shake my hand."

"Alright," he smiled, "Would you like some hand sanitizer in case we do shake hands in the future?"

"...I already have some," he responded awkwardly, patting his jacket pocket. He'd gotten the jacket for his birthday from his wife, Elizaveta, who'd pretended their daughter, only a month old, had sent it. He still missed Zdenka, having been too ill to show up to the custody hearing. She'd be three by now, he calculated

"Well then, I suppose we should get to know each other.", Ivan chirped, voice surprisingly soft and child-like for such a big imposing man.

"Sure," Roderich responded, unenthused. By now, he missed his bus, and he kind of wanted to go home to his piano.

"There is a café by the center, want some coffee?", he smiled, "I'll buy."

"Yeah. Great," he mumbled, slightly observant of the other's slight Russian accent.

As they walked, Roderich muttered, "So are you sick too, or just a supporter?"

"I am HIV-positive," Ivan confided, not bothered to say it even, "Two years and counting."

The musician stared at the other, a chubby clear eyed man, in slight disbelief, "But you look so...healthy."

"I am HIV positive. Not sick," he smiled, "I have the virus, but it has not affected me. I am lucky that I am simply an asymptomatic carrier," he smiled, then frowned softly in seriousness, "But because I am hosting the virus, I am still to be very careful, and not get anyone else infected through sex, blood, or needles, and do my best to stay healthy so in case I do get sick, the virus does not end up becoming active after all."

Roderich glanced up, "Does this mean you're going to live longer than most people with HIV?"

"Possibly," Ivan smiled, "But the span of life isn't important.", then winked, "It's what I can do during it."

He wrinkled his nose slightly, wondering if the Russian was issuing a challenge. A race to the death to see whose life had more purpose on the planet. Roderich was going to fill the world with music, at least he dreamed of it. What was Ivan going to do? Sit and smile at an AIDS support group for the next twenty years? How riveting.

Yet, the Austrian had no answers, and no more to say, simply getting in line at the cafe behind Ivan. Ordering a cup of black coffee, he sat across from the other, ripping open sugar packets and adding milk, while blowing the steam off the cup.

Ivan gave a tiny giggle, "You remind me of my boyfriend."

"You're gay? Big shock," he muttered.

"What gave it away? My sweater and scarf?", he giggled.

"That and the fact you've got HIV," he muttered, glancing up.

"So do you," he pointed out, smiling tightly as he stirred his tea. That wasn't the first time someone made a wise-ass remark about his situation, and judging by Roderich's character, would not be the last.

"I'm not gay," he mumbled, dumping in more sugar to make it all less bitter. Even if he was straight as a board, Roderich was still associating his illness with homosexuality. It seemed to fit best that way, and he figured one could never really escape the stereotypes.

"...anyway, my boyfriend adds sugar to everything, and it gives him bad teeth!", he laughed, wanting to lighten the mood, "I tell him, 'Alfred, you hurt your teeth!', and he ignores me.", he laughed again.

Rolling his eyes, Roderich swallowed his milky, sugary coffee, and looked up, "You need to drive me home."

Ivan didn't seem to be upset by the slightly rude demand, and nodded, "Want to drink the rest of your coffee here?", he asked.

"No," he mumbled, carrying the cup outside, "Take me to your car."

Not even faltering his smile, he did so, smiling for the whole drive in the small car, looking up at the sign on the complex Roderich ordered him to stop at, "See you at the next group meet."

"Yeah," he muttered, getting out of the car without another word, going inside the dated building, into his rather empty apartment, sitting at his piano bench, diligently testing lines of notes in sequence, chomping hard on his lip whenever it didn't sound right. When he finally did finish this song, his lip would be a bloody pulp.

Laying in bed, he received a text from a new number.

_'Would you like a ride for the next group meet? -Ivan'_

Wrinkling his nose, wondering how the hell the other got his number, he texted back:

_'I'll take the bus. Goodnight.'_

Another beep.

_'Goodnight! - Ivan'_

Roderich turned off his phone, and decided he didn't want to attend the next meeting.

* * *

"Why are you here?", Roderich asked the other, nose wrinkled slightly as he faced the other in his doorway.

"You didn't show up to the group tonight," Ivan explained, playing with his scarf, "I was checking on you."

"I don't need checking on," he muttered, staring at the floor, "I'm fine."

"...you didn't leave because of me, did you?"

 _Of course, you annoying fairy. "_ No, I wanted to work on my music instead," he explained briefly, staring blankly at the other through his ill fit glasses.

"You write music?", he smiled, looking into the apartment, "What kind?"

"Different kinds," he mumbled, sighing as he stood aside to let the other in, "...come in if you want."

Ivan politely took his boots off, and left them on the rug by the door where Roderich's worn out loafers were, "Your apartment is very nice," he smiled.

"You don't have to be so polite," he mumbled, "I'm on welfare."

"Well, it's very nice for someone on welfare then," he smiled, walking in, seeing the piano, "How long have you owned this?"

"It was a wedding present from my parents," he mumbled, "So, about five years."

"I didn't know you were married," he smiled brightly.

"I was," he mumbled, "We divorced a little over a year ago."

Ivan's smile immediately faded, having realized his mistake, "Oh...I'm sorry...I didn't know-"

"Of course you didn't," he mumbled, sitting at the piano, and beginning to get back to work. Ivan was left to stare at his back awkwardly. His delicate violet eyes explored the room, and he smiled as he saw a box of vinyl records. He tapped the other's shoulder, "Can I look through these?", he beamed, gesturing to them.

Sighing, Roderich rolled his eyes, and nodded, "Go ahead."

Eagerly, the Russian sat in front of the box, leafing through the records, giggling, "My Alfred has this one...and this one, I got him for his birthday, oh, and I have this one in my garage somewhere," he smiled, chatting on and on as he went through the albums. Roderich skillfully ignored him as he played his piano, pretending to listen to the other. Anything to at least appear slightly social.

After some more leafing through of the records, Ivan looked up with a soft smile, "You play beautifully."

The Austrian sat up slightly, glancing over, "Well...thank you."

"How long have you been playing?", he asked, standing up, holding one of the records in his hand.

"For well over 20 years," he mumbled, sniffing proudly, fixing his glasses on his face, still playing the piece flawlessly with one hand.

"You didn't even miss tempo when you moved your hand like that," Ivan observed with a laugh, "You really are good!"

"Of course I am," he rolled his eyes with a snort, and continued.

"...Can I play too?", he suddenly asked, almost like a curious child.

"...I...well... _can_  you even play?", he questioned, glancing at him with a sharp eye.

"Well...a little, but not really," he admitted, playing with his hands, "I'm more skilled with the cello..."

"A fine instrument," he assured, attention turned back to the piano. That was his way of saying, "Hands off."

Ivan didn't speak Roderich's language, and thus, sat down, hands placed over the keys, watching the other's hands, trying to mimic the movement and the notes. Three sour notes in a row caused the pianist to sit up with slight annoyance, "Can you not?"

"Sorry," he mumbled, face red. He was trying to be friendly with the brunette man, and just as it seemed they were getting along, he made a mistake, and pissed him off.

The Russian awkwardly got up off the piano bench, and sat down on the edge of the couch nearby, watching the other. As the minutes passed, in silence, Ivan tried to picture a stage, a grand piano in the center, illuminated by the spotlight, as Roderich played it. He had the gaze and frame of a composer, a musical genius obvious in his brain. The leadership of a conductor, the heart to bring alive a whole symphony, no doubt. Ivan couldn't imagine what the other was capable of.

"...I don't think I've ever heard this before," he admitted quietly.

"Of course you didn't, I wrote it," Roderich responded with slight pride.

"It has a lovely tune," he smiled, "What's it called?"

"I don't know," he sighed, fixing his glasses once again, "I've been writing it for the last two months, and I'm still in the composing stage. Not even sure what the lyrics will be."

"I'm sure they'll be good," he smiled, then added, "If not, you can just sing the word 'banana' for every line."

"That's ridiculous," he responded with sharpness, aggravated for some reason by his comments, "Besides, it's an even lengthier process. If I don't have enough time to write lyrics, then I won't."

"I'm sure you'll have plenty of time to-"

"Not if I'm dead," he responded with slight contempt, immediately resting his hands on the keys below them, their notes resounding with a dull 'thonk'.

Ivan held his tongue, knowing that it wasn't wise to strike a nerve, especially if the other's temper was short as it was. He looked at his lap, where his hands; work hardened and pale; sat, "Right...well...you're still very talented, and if it means anything, I think I could call myself a fan of this," he smiled weakly, getting up.

Before Roderich could say anything, the Russian chirped with deceptive cheerfulness, "I have overstayed my visit," and headed for the door, not realizing he was still holding the record.

"Ivan," Roderich spoke shortly, catching the other's attention. Once Ivan's violet eyes met his darker indigo ones, he sighed, "I...thank you. I'm sorry, it's been a difficult process, I'm not handling it as I should be."

"There's not a 'right' way to handle your feelings at a time like this," Ivan assured softly, "Trust me. I know...", then turned with a sincere smile, "See you next week," and opened the door.

"Ivan."

"Yes?", he looked back.

"That's my Sinatra vinyl you are holding."

"Oh, ah sorry, I remembered Alfred likes this, so I guess I forgot I was holding it-"

"Would you like to borrow it?", he offered, giving a hint of a smile.

"...I...alright!", he smiled, hugging it to his chest.

"Tell your boyfriend I hope he likes it," he mumbled.

"...I will," he smiled softly, leaving the apartment with a soft hum of the tune Roderich had played.

* * *

"So what's your job anyway?", he asked Ivan, as he took another forkful of noodles. The group session ended early, so Ivan offered to treat Roderich to dinner, ordering takeout Chinese to eat at the pianist's apartment. Unable to say no to a free meal, or something that was such a guilty pleasure as American-bastardized Asian cuisine, Roderich accepted.

"Construction worker," he answered once he finished his large bite of mushu pork. "Surprised?"

"That you're a construction worker, yes," he nodded, "I figured you got your income sitting in on those gatherings every week."

"I don't get paid shit from it," he laughed softly, "I do it because it makes me happy. I get stable pay working at sites for the rest of the week."

"Do you go shirtless?", he asked, eyebrow raised, taking the carton of pork from him.

"Not unless it is hot out," he smiled, gobbling down an egg roll.

Roderich cleaned his plate with his fork, and then got up, "I'm going to take my medication..."

Ivan looked up, "Do you take AZT or something?"

"Yeah, that one," he nodded, words slurring slightly as he walked towards his room, then felt a wave a nausea wipe over him. He staggered, and took in a breath.

"Hey, are you OK?", Ivan frowned, taking him by the shoulder, "Do you need air? Let's get you air," he declared, leading him to the open window.

Just as the fresh air took him, Roderich leaned out the window, retching suddenly, emptying the contents of his stomach. Tears pricked at his eyes, his throat burning.

Ivan was rubbing his back, "Roderich, it's OK. You're OK," he soothed softly.

"...I'm getting worse," he mumbled, mouth feeling vile. The Russian had him drink water as he sat him on the couch.

"I wish I could help you past these symptoms," he mumbled, taking a blanket on the other end of the couch, wrapping it around him.

"I'm a useless infantile man," Roderich mumbled, trembling from a slight fever, pressing himself against the couch.

"You are not useless, don't even think that.", he chided gently, rubbing his back, fixing his pillow.

"Hey!", a voice snapped from outside the window, from Roderich's downstairs neighbor, "Whoever puked, up yours!"

"Come on up, darling! I'm waiting!", Ivan shouted back, slamming the window shut.

The response shocked Roderich so much, he began to laugh, peal after peal of high pitched, shrill giggles echoed throughout the apartment. His pale face was bright red from laughter, and he looked at Ivan, and commended between giggles, glasses falling right off his face, "Th-THAT was the BEST comeback I have ever heard!"

"Context makes everything funnier!", Ivan chirped, beginning to laugh himself, his own giggles coming out in mad cackles, glad to see Roderich cheering up a bit.

Laughter made things a lot better too.

* * *

As weeks passed, the seasons turned, and the weather had gotten warmer, while Roderich's sweaters got thicker, body continuously chilled with fever. He'd tended to skip out on the group meetings, feeling his symptoms were getting more aggressive and frequent. Ivan would bring by dinner for the other, even though he wouldn't eat much of it, his figure getting thinner every week, and his clothes starting to get too baggy. He'd switched out his piano bench for a chair that supported his back, and that had a better level of comfort. He knew he was close to finishing his music, but it still seemed impossible to get it done.

He'd been in the middle of writing the refrain of the song, when his phone beeped, notifying he'd received a text. He decided to finish writing the verse before he picked up the phone. He picked up his pencil, handwriting sloppier than normal, and continued to create poetry,

_And everybody knows where this is heading._   
_Forgive me for forgetting._   
_Our hearts irrevocably combined._

Cursing softly as the phone beeped, disturbing his muse, he picked it up, pressing the inbox button.

_'I need to talk to you, call me- Liz'_

Roderich's breath caught in his throat. She still kept his number? Even after he deleted her's off of his phone? Hands shaking even more, he punched the 'Call number' icon, excited but almost fearful. What if she wanted him back? What if she didn't? What if this was about Zdenka? What if something happened to her? Already, as the dial tone sounded, he was growing anxious.

"Roderich,", she answered blankly.

"...Elizaveta,", he mumbled back, staring ahead at the wall.

"We need to talk."

"Is this about Zdenka? Is she ok?", he asked, almost sounding panicked.

"She's fine," she responded quickly, so as not to have him panic and hang up on her before she got her questions answered. She drew in a breath, then flatly asked,

"...Do you have AIDS?"

The functions of Roderich's chest seemed to freeze, and his throat dried like the last drop of water in the sweltering heat of fever. "...H-how did you find out?"

She drew in another deep breath, "Oh god, you do...oh Roderich," she whimpered, pressing her face against her hand, overwhelmed by the fact her ex husband was dying, "I got a letter addressed to you from an AIDS support group...Why didn't you ever tell me this?"

"I...didn't want to alarm you.", he whimpered.

"You mean you had this the whole time, and you never told me?", she asked, almost sounding panicked herself.

"That's not what I meant, I meant after we divorced, I got it,", he explained, "I got back into drugs and-"

"You did? For how long?", she asked, voice going soft in shock.

"One month," he mumbled, "I ended up getting some unclean needles-"

"Didn't that happen before Zdenka was born too? You got hooked, got a bad needle, and we tested you for it, it was negative so we didn't worry about it?", she questioned, "How do we know that you didn't have it then after all? What if it just came up negative that time on chance?"

"Elizaveta, the doctor said-"

"I'm going to have to get myself tested.", she thought aloud, "Zdenka too. What if we end up having it, and it's too late for anything to be done?"

"You wouldn't have it, otherwise you'd be sicker than me!", he groaned.

"I don't know that!" she responded, voice getting more aggressive, "I read stuff on the internet that it can sit in your body for a while before it does anything. And that babies-"

"Elizaveta, please!", he cut her off, before sighing, leafing through the folder on the table, going over the doctor's notes, "...the doctor said the virus was probably less than a year active...way after we divorced."

A sigh was heard over the phone, "...well...even still, I'm going to get myself and Zdenka tested."

"...how is she?", he mumbled, thinking of his little girl, "Does she miss me?"

"Yes, she wonders if you're going to come back sometimes."

He bit his lip, "...do you think I could see her?"

The woman on the other line curled her hand in repression of emotion as she spoke, "I...I don't think so."

Roderch's throat closed up, "...why?"

She audibly choked up as she began to sob, "I don't want her to see her father dying!"

The Austrian was left speechless, heart breaking slightly as he heard her mumble an emotional, hasty apology and hang up. Hands trembling violently, he slammed the phone on the table, chomping down hard on his lip in order to repress his emotions. Tasting blood in his mouth, he sunk into his chair, despair on his gaunt features.

As soon as he felt a hand on his shoulder, he almost screamed, and whirled around. Ivan stood above him with an apologetic face. "I'm...sorry about your wife, I-"

"You were listening in on my phone call?", he snarled, looking furious.

"Your door was unlocked so I-"

"Who from the group sent that letter to my wife?", he interrogated, glaring at the Russian.

"...I did," he responded quietly, "I mailed you a notice about a cancelled gathering some weeks ago, and your PO box service rejected it, so I guess they used the alternative address of yours I found in your records-"

"That address wasn't supposed to be there!", he exclaimed, "My wife wasn't supposed to know about this!"

"I'm really sorry, Roderich,", he whispered, ashamed of the event, "I was doing my job, I didn't know it would-"

"Well because of you, I'm probably never going to see my daughter again! Thanks a lot, you fucking fag!", he snapped bitterly.

The other's face went blank in utter astonishment, " _Excuse me_?"

"You heard me!", he snarled, "You're a fucking fag! You and your obnoxious face always showing up around my damn apartment, thinking you're doing me a damn service by scooting your gay ass around here! You've made things worse, so why don't you go get your pugface fatter off of eating your faggy boyfriend's ass out for the fifty millionth time while you share your homo germs with each other like candy?"

Ivan's obviously hurt expression twisted into one of fury, eyes flaring, as he snarled, "Alright, you listen here-"

"NO, YOU LISTEN!", he roared, "You've got the same shit I do, but you don't get any of the fucking perks of death and disease! You get to live your damn life as you please, while I'm stuck counting the days until I die!" Slamming his fist on the piano keys, leaving them to resound sharply, he ranted on, "I'm not going to live long enough to see how famous my music will become after it initially sells, how much money it would make, and how much it would have helped my family!", he screeched, then almost sobbed, "I'm not going to get to see my daughter go to school, grow up, get married, or have children! I don't even know if she'll remember me!"

Stumbling up onto his weak legs, he pointed an accusing finger at the slackjawed Russian, "You don't have to worry about dying, you get to live a perfectly prick life in some cozy little house. You can just go home crying to your precious fucktoy after this, and-"

"NO I CAN'T.", Ivan suddenly roared, shutting the other up. Roderich was left staring in shock as the other stared him straight in the eye, tears streaming down his cheeks as his eyes glittered furiously.

"I cannot go home to my boyfriend because I live  _alone_. My Alfred has been dead for two whole years," he whispered harshly.

Words immediately shriveled and died in the Austrian's throat as he realized his mistake. Before he could even think to say anything, Ivan continued, his voice broken and burning, "He had an addiction to heroin, and would not break his habit of using the same needles, or needles borrowed from friends. He...would always smile, and tell me it was okay, and that he knew what he was doing because he was careful enough. He...never stopped smiling. Except when he got sick, and got tested...I got tested too...", he whispered, "We both tested positive for HIV, and he stared at me...with this absolutely  _broken_  look, to say he knew that he infected me...he just...broke, and every day, he cried and told me he was sorry that he'd killed me...I...tried to stay positive for him, and tell him it was all alright, but...it was of little help."

Roderich's throat was tightening by invisible drawstrings as the Russian man continued, his pale trembling hands twisting into his silvery blonde hair, "I came home from work one day, and saw all these people standing around my Alfred," he whimpered, a face of reflective horror as he stared at the wall, recounting, "Th-they said he jumped from the roof of the apartment, enough to crack his head right open..."

He turned for the door, smiling brokenly, "I keep thinking that this was a bad dream, and that once I get home, he will be there, waiting for me, so I can tell him that I'm alright..."

Before he exited, and left Roderich alone in the apartment, he whispered, "Maybe he'll be home today."

* * *

Roderich didn't get any sleep that night, absolutely horrified over what Ivan had told him. He'd not realized how broken the other was, and was almost fearing that if something happened to the Russian, it would weigh on his conscience forever. Ivan had been unable to help Alfred, so he was trying to help Roderich...And now, Roderich wanted to help Ivan, in whatever way possible.

Looking very much like a zombie, he walked to the corner store on the block for more fever medication. As soon as he entered the store, he was locking eyes with the other, who was standing in the medicine aisle, fever relief in hand.

"Um-", Roderich started, but his words died in his throat. Ivan immediately averted his gaze to the rest of the medicine. Finding nothing else, he walked to the counter, speaking in a polite, but unfriendly tone, "I am getting you your medicine, as instructed."

"Ivan, I-"

"Usually, I'd be doing this as a friend. But because of the circumstances, I am doing this out of civil service.", he cut him off with coldness, taking the receipt, and walked out of the store, not even stopping for Roderich. The Austrian followed him as closely as he could, easily tiring from the weather and his condition.

Ivan ended up walking to the other's apartment, putting the medicine on the counter, and grabbing a can of broth to heat up for lunch. Roderich might consider himself lucky that he didn't add lye or broken glass to it.

The Austrian sank onto his couch, staring at the ceiling, hearing the other work in his kitchen. When the bowl of soup was half-heartedly thrust onto the coffee table, tears pricked in his eyes. He quickly covered his eyes with his arm, but to no avail, tears started pouring out.

The Russian looked up, and blankly stared at the other, who was lying flat on the couch, beginning to sob like a child. "Roderich," he spoke blankly, "Eat your lunch."

"I can't," he whimpered, tears passing his lip, "I'm too upset."

"Why?", he asked boredly, as if he was quizzing the other.

"I'm sorry okay?", he sobbed, "I'm sorry I called you a fag, for calling your boyfriend a fucktoy, and for yelling at you! I'm really sorry for hurting you, I mean it!"

Roderich's eyes were screwed shut as he spoke, tears leaking from them. He only opened them when he felt a blanket get draped over him.

"What you said hurt me. Badly," Ivan spoke as he put a pillow under Roderich's head, "But it means a lot to hear you apologize. Thank you. I believe I should apologize as well. Even if it wasn't intentional, I should have respected your privacy."

He sniffled, "It doesn't matter anyway. Even if she didn't know I'm sick, she wouldn't let me come back all the same."

Ivan frowned, handing him the bowl of soup. When Roderich only ate a little over half, he sighed, "I have to go to work today. Please try to eat some more, and I'll check on you tomorrow, okay?"

"Alright.", the other mumbled, curling up on the couch.

Standing up, Ivan headed for the door, and saw a sheet of paper on the piano keys, titled 'bridge' at the top. He read it over, reading past the weak, shaky handwriting,

_Like sisters and brothers we lean on each other._   
_Like sweethearts carved on a headstone._   
_Oh why even bother, it'll be here tomorrow._   
_It's not worth it, sleeping alone._

Ivan smiled softly, and spoke with a subdued cheer, "I think your song will be wonderful, Roderich.", and left, hoping the man on the couch would be alright.

* * *

Conditions had worsened. But thankfully, not in time to deter Roderich from writing the rest of the lyrics, pieces of sheet music, and everything else that went with the song. Two weeks after his fight with Ivan, with a strong spirit, and a decent tape recorder, he played his song's completed draft. He would be able to send it to a willing music company, in hope it might be professionally recorded. He was too weak to perform it on his own anymore.

Proud of his bittersweet victory, Roderich rested on his couch, glad his biggest goal was achieved. He perked up slightly as he heard the door get knocked on, "It's unlocked.", he called out, figuring it was Ivan.

Instead of violet eyes and blonde hair, he was met with a green eyed brunette.

"Elizaveta?", he mumbled, sitting up, glasses nearly falling off his gaunt face.

The Hungarian woman could only stare at her ex-husband, unsettled to see him so weak and frail. "I...came to see you," she murmured, "Zdenka's at daycare."

"Oh,"he mumbled, "I...guess she wouldn't want to see me."

"Actually, I came to talk to you,", she mumbled, "Your...friend, Ivan, talked to me. He's worried that you might need more care than he can give. He works during the day, and you might need help during then."

He blinked, his amethyst eyes brightening a bit, still sunken in, "Are you suggesting you take care of me?"

"I mean, what if...you move back in," she suggested, "You need a better environment than this barebones apartment. And...I could help you."

He bit his lip, "What about the divorce settlement?"

"You're just moving back in," she sighed, "Not remarrying me. We can't go back to that. You know that."

"I thought you didn't want to upset Zdenka this way..."

She sighed, and hesitantly pulled Roderich into a hug, stomach knotting over how frail he was in her arms, "If we do things right, she will remember you as a father who loved her very much up to the very end, not a sick person in a bed. She needs you, and you need her."

Swallowing a lump in his throat, he croaked, "...Okay."

She gently played with his hair in an attempt to make him feel better, but feeling how thin and stringy his once lovely hair had become, she began to feel worse herself. Getting up, she softly muttered, "I'm going to go pick Zdenka up from daycare."

When she left, Roderich still felt the warmth from her hug in his chest, having missed her touch for so long. He wouldn't dare tell her anything now, but he still loved her as much as when he married her. He turned on his tape recorder, listening to himself sing his song. His voice had remained strong to record, but now, it was weak as he sang the current verse again under his breath.

_And look at you and me still here together._   
_There is no one knows you better._   
_And we've come such a long long way._   
_Let's put it off for one more day._

* * *

The day after Roderich was moved back into Elizaveta's, his T cell count was 181, officially marking his condition from HIV to AIDS, and making clear that his time was going to be very precious. His legs had become too weak for him to walk for very long, and so he used a wheelchair to navigate. Despite such somber news, he was happy to see his daughter for the first time in over a year. He managed to be cheerful for her, excitedly chatting to her about how she had grown, how nice her dress was, and how it was so grand to see her (attempting to) play piano at such a young age. She didn't seem to notice, or care that her father was sick, she was just glad to see him again. How sad it would be for her to have to say goodbye to him again soon.

Roderich's song was accepted by a company who had a band perform it for an album. Roderich got the original copy of it, and listened to it after finishing reading another story to Zdenka, who was most likely dreaming sweetly about the adventures of Winnie the Pooh, the Finn family of Moomintrolls, or Dorothy Gale, having fallen asleep beside him. He cried as he heard his song for the first time. He cried more when he realized he wouldn't know how much of an impact it would really make. _  
_

About a week after moving in, Roderich had been stubborn about walking around the house, occasionally stumbling. Elizaveta had rolled her eyes, telling him he didn't need to be so prideful. He had been saying something wise in German when he suddenly went quiet, and fell to the floor, not getting up.

"See? You're going to fall," Elizaveta had sighed, walking over to him "Up now, and get into your chair."

Roderich did not move, eyes shut, as if he was sleeping.

Breath frozen for a moment, Elizaveta frantically shook him, unable to rouse him. Finding he had a pulse, she called 911, then Ivan. All while having a straight face, and calm demeanor in case Zdenka were to wake from her nap.

But when Ivan arrived in a rush several minutes later, as the paramedics carried the unconscious Austrian away, Elizaveta began to cry. It was all too much.

* * *

 _Toxoplasmosis_  was what the doctor defined to the two as they waited to hear of what happened to Roderich, who was attached to a life support system. Parasites infected the brain, and caused it to inflame. Often occuring in people with weakened immune systems, especially patients with AIDS. This, along with the fall, left Roderich in a coma.

"We don't know when he'll wake up," the doctor sighed, "I'm sorry."

The two could only stare at the man in the bed. This wasn't Roderich. Roderich was dead already. They both knew that if he did regain consciousness, he would not be alive. He'd be unable to talk, walk, communicate, use the bathroom, eat, or perhaps hear and see them.

"Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but you are in charge of your ex husbands medical decisions as of now, correct?", the doctor inquired Elizaveta, who looked up, and nodded, "...I...think it's his time to go."

Ivan looked at her, and though he wasn't going to stop her, he mumbled, "Are you sure right now? Are you positive?"

She sighed, "Ivan, you know better than I do that if he wakes up, he's going to be unable to do anything without a doctor. He lived with dignity, and deserves to die with it."

The Russian looked at her with soft violet eyes, then nodded. Elizaveta looked up to the doctor, "...give us a few minutes, please?", and as soon as they left, roused Zdenka from sleep on her lap, mumbling, "Zdenka?"

"Mama?", the girl cooed inquisitively, her eyes the same color of her father's. She saw him in the bed, all the funny tubes attached to him. "Mama, Papa is-"

"Zdenka, Papa is very very sick right now,", she murmured, trying to keep composed, "And he can't get better here, the doctor's tried, but he can't. So...in a little while...he's going to heaven, where God can make him better again. But he won't be able to come back to us for a very very long time. Do you want to say goodbye?"

Obviously unhappy at the prospect of not seeing her father again for a long time, she nodded, and let her mother put her on the bed, where she curled up beside the comatose Austrian, hugging his frail chest as much as her body allowed her to stretch, "Bye, Papa. I love you."

"Papa loves you too," Elizaveta mumbled, tears rolling down her cheeks. She looked to Ivan, who was crying as well, skillful enough to not be outright sobbing. The Russian reached his hand out to Roderich's colder and paler one, and squeezed it gently, "Meet up with Alfred for me, okay? Tell him I'm okay. You are a good man, and your music is beautiful."

All Elizaveta could do was take a deep breath, and gain the courage to tell the doctors outside that they could unplug the machines. As they walked in, Ivan swore he could hear Roderich's song on the radio. He listened to it, humming along weakly through tears, hugging the Austrian's ex wife as they disconnected all the wires of the machines. Roderich put up no fight to it.

By the time all the machines were out, and the body had become merely a shell, the music had stopped.

* * *

Elizaveta had knocked on Ivan's door over a month later, but found the other was not home. So she simply taped the envelope to his apartment door, and left, back to her normal life without Roderich.

When Ivan got home from the AIDS support group that night, without a boyfriend and without a sponsor, he opened the letter, finding a check for a wealthy sum of cash. As well as two notes.

The first was from Elizaveta, reading,

_Ivan,_

_Roderich's song has been doing well. He wanted to give you part of the royalties, it was stated in his will. He also wanted to give you part of the lyric sheet he wrote and tore up. He even signed it. I still miss him a lot, and so does Zdenka, but I think he'd be happy if he saw how successful he'd become._

_Elizaveta,  
P.S. I'm having a friend over for dinner next week, would you like to meet him? We'll be having pot roast._

The second was from Roderich, in his surprisingly fancy handwriting from several months ago.

 _Thank you for everything.,_ had been written in the corner with the initials R.E. Below, on the torn piece of scratch paper were the words of the muses.

 _And everybody knows where this is heading._  
Forgive me for forgetting.  
Our hearts irrevocably combined.  
Star-crossed souls slow dancing,  
Retreating and advancing.  
Across the sky until the end of time.


End file.
